


Ode to the Sun (for you are my love, no matter the scorch marks)

by kodamakuroo



Series: summer mo(u)rning, pleasant bliss. [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Arthurian legend - Freeform, Character Death, Descriptions of Sex but also Not Explicit, False Accusations, Flower Crowns, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Magic, Manipulation, Merlin AU, Mystical Creatures, Self-Hatred, Strangers to Lovers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25289077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kodamakuroo/pseuds/kodamakuroo
Summary: A boy that spoke via paintings of water lilies and of spiralling skies. He spoke until his ribs were rooted at the base of the flower beds in which he made his demise. Spoke of words drenched in sweet honeysuckle that seeped into withering marrow. Soil beneath skin and grass stains upon cotton. He was of hues and adoration. Of catharsis, of strong words and bright smiles. Tasting like cherry and lavender and warm tuesdays. Aching of reincarnation and of foolishness he'd recite love poems out of a delirious mouth, tricking his melted mind into believing an unspoken truth. It drove us over the edge.
Relationships: Lee Taeyong/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Series: summer mo(u)rning, pleasant bliss. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856860
Kudos: 6





	Ode to the Sun (for you are my love, no matter the scorch marks)

**ACT oo / PURGE:**

**See:** moonshine children are made out of summer and out of aching smiles and of fragile bones. Children with bones fragile from replacing blood with salty seawater, gnawing their flesh from their soft soft soft skeleton until it painted the seas crimson. They are teeth stark against moonlight, bared in howls of joy and glory. Slick with joyous dishonour. Children that lay lounged across a plain, in the midst of anecdoche and monachopsis, in the midst of star-melted wax and Crete's mocking hiss. Calloused palms sliced open like an apple, spitting out the vivid bitter peel and teeth-breaking cores. You see, moonshine children didn't care. Their ears would prick and their gums would rot under the sweet nothings that they whispered. They were freckles scattered by the wind and decorated with abrasions and grass stains. Children structured from bark and moss, so rare they could be spoken of as serendipities. Plucking herbs and petals from their homes until it filled their own hollow chests.

 **See:** these children are nouns. They are correlations of lungs and healed lunacy. Earth smeared and night-torn. They are faint visages in the howling wind. Half-baked ghosts roaming without a purpose. They grew wild berries between the space of their white teeth, they were like putting a dog on its leash and not expecting it to hiss and spit at innocent boy's with honey eyes and torn scratched skin. They are heavy of homemade rapture and of hoaxed growls. They were worship and wildfire. They were homeless children, fragile by disease and bleak blue.

**ACT o1 / SHIVERS:**

Lee Taeyong swore that Camelot breathed the living. It sucked the blue out of the sky and expelled it onto its people, throat wrapped in stems of thorns. He swore that the heavens were painted in stain glass windows and lungs coated in dreams on unforgivable scriptures. Archaic buildings crafted from southern winds and byzantium flowers. Taeyong loved the kingdom. Bricks welded with dreams and ribs carved by Bragi himself (gardens adorned with runes and veins of verdant poetry, eloquence's god). Taeyong swore the roots of Yggdrasil had been crafted into bones and withered marrow, creating an everlasting structure. Taeyong loved Camelot.

(Even just by stepping onto the soil made violets bloom on his tongue and thorns prick his spine.)

It was humid, the kind of spring day when the daisy petals shrivelled in on themselves and there's the faint sound of wind whistling from a hollow tree, honey-drenched as the bees collected their annual lot. It was sweet. The type of sweet that melted into your vacant bones and drenched your lungs in its sickly scent.

Taeyong felt a small gust of wind rush through the lower town of Camelot, malevolent whispers strung a circle around him as he moved through the marketplace — it was haunting. A bitter taste marring clean linen, cloying and suffocating pale skin. He didn't choose to be subject to the rumours — the acidic gazes or hushed insults. He was an oddity — a massacre of oxymorons — lowborn but pretty, softspoken but cold, desired but invisible — (you get the idea).

It wasn't that Taeyong cared all that much, instead opting for blooming chrysanthemums in secluded corners and sewing life into dead vines slumped against castle walls, but there was never a day when he didn't feel unnerved — figure rigid in acute anticipation. There was only so much you could take before the feeling of Hödr's tendrils of darkness drawing spirals at the base of his pelvis began to make nest in abandoned parts of his headspace. It was a type of ebony that Taeyong clawed at his arms for — cursing the velvet blood leaking, for it expelled none of the plague and instead only drew more in. He'd like to think that it wasn't such a struggle to be good — but the ever increasing number of attacks on innocent warlocks and witches caused sickness to bubble in the pit of his stomach, lacing his lungs with tar and hoping for him to drown in it.

Squinting in the sunlight, Taeyong ducked beneath a curtain next to a bakery — scent of yeast and oats crisp in the sticky air. The small opening leading way to a decaying courtyard in the heart of kingdom, shrouded by shadow and casted in dull light. Sunspots flickered through the cracked stone and arid leaves — allowing for Taeyong to see clearly. Crouching slightly he leant forward towards a cluster of yellow primrose peaking out from the shadows and let his hand cup their leaves in a feverish gentleness. A low hum sounded from his throat whilst undistinguishable words flowed from plump lips, the boy watched with silent glee as the flowers perked up ever so slightly and the smaller buds opening to reveal a gorgeous cream.

Taeyong felt waves of tension bleed from his shoulders, bag dropping to the floor as he came to lay down amidst the budding blooms. Judging from the position of the sun peaking through the sycamore tree casting halos from it's leaves around the boy's head, he had a few more hours before his new job was sanctioned to start. It was an uphill climb to say the least — many nights spent aching and weaving together a list of skills eligible to even be considered to become the Royal Gardener. He supposes it helps that he is privy to rather valuable connections — with his aunt only having just retired from being a cook for the King and his son. Taeyong personally had no affliction for the royal family — being a warlock, he naturally holds his caution close to his chest and holds himself stiffly whenever the Prince rides through the lower town as he so happens to be watching on the sidelines, bouquet of flowers clutched in his withering grip.

His only real reason for craving such a job was that he could see the vines and wisteria curling around the great walls and his heart ached for nothing more than to run his palms through the soil, pumping his life-force into the seeds. Whispers had been passed around the richer areas of Camelot — rumours of the previous gardener having relished greedily in black magic and ran away when their cover had been unearthed — he had Ten to thank for such information. Almost as if Heimdall had been shadowing his form, only a select few number of days passed before a small messenger boy with mousy hair and sunkissed freckles had stood beaming in his doorway, proudly presenting a waxed envelope with the royal emblem splashed across the front from his red cloak. Panic and elation had emerged in a strange symphony in the blond's throat — only sparing the teenager in front of him a clumsy smile before abruptly slamming the door in his bright face.

Luckily for the virus in his mind, the panic had worn off quickly — now he was bathing in soft cotton with thyme embedded in his hair whilst he allows his body to feel the damp in the ground and sprinkle gentle kisses upon assortments of life.

Taeyong didn't know whether to be happy in his predicament — but for now he's content.

**ACT o2 / MURMURS:**

Bees flutter in figure eights above his head as he sits knee deep in bundles of metal and earth — knees muddied from soil and cheeks flushed in the humid heat. He can smell the honey drenching the budding sunflowers to his left and the drowsiness of the lavender behind him.

Taeyong's first week as the Royal gardener has been bliss. Maybe it's naive, to be so trusting — heart aching for acceptance to no longer feel disconnected.

( **Read** / Monachopsis **; n.** the feeling of being out of place, as maladapted to your surroundings. )

He has yet to be greeted by anyone of true significance — seeming that the Royal's actually spend little time submerged to their waist in pollen and scent. He has though met the Prince's Royal advisor — a stiff man, lips curled downwards to mirror the crease in his brow and black hair swept upwards away from his slim face. He had been wearing navy when he'd visited — a sophisticated colour screaming old money and in large contrast to the soft yellow blouse Taeyong had decided to don on his second day of working.

He'd introduced himself as Doyoung — a slight quirk in his lip had appeared as he surveyed the younger pottering around whilst he sat under the wisteria, porcelain skin protected from the harsh sun. Taeyong likes to think he's made a friend in the man — as odd as he is, with pouty lips and a rigid spine — Taeyong had made decent conversation (even if it was mainly he who was talking) as he replanted dying plants or watered dehydrated ones. He didn't press — he could tell if he was going down a dark path from merely the way Doyoung's eyes steeled — so he kept conversation light. Sometimes his words would leak from his mouth with little filter, resulting in the man to be subject to some of the lower towns gossip. But this didn't happen too often — for there weren't many rumours that didn't speak of the whimsical elf boy with no parents.

Doyoung didn't come as much as he'd anticipated — only on day two and five; but it was enough.

Day three had brought the arrival of a clump of guards in training — a small gaggle of boys not much taller than Taeyong himself. He'd only known they were there by the loud dragging of swords scraping across the cobble — a jarring sound in the serenity of the garden's. To his surprise, he recognised one of the boys — loud laughs and smooth skin, his voice being the loudest among the group. He was also the one who had spotted Taeyong first, nestled among the roses.

"Hey Mister!" A bubbly voice reverberated through the courtyard, Taeyong couldn't help the slight jump that electrified his body at the acknowledgment. Turning to peer up slightly, he faced a group of five boys with varying degrees of interest present on their youthful faces. "I'm glad to see you're settling in."

Casting his gaze to the left slightly, Taeyong was met with the familiar beaming face of the boy who had delivered his acceptance letter — fumbling slightly, Taeyong stood up to bow haphazardly at the amateur guards. Nervousness bubbled in the pit of his stomach at the lack of response and as he glanced up he saw the amused faces of the boys. Smiling softly he let himself play with the hem of his blueberry shirt.

"Uh yes, it's very nice here. Thank you," Taeyong tried not to cringe as the smile on the sunny boy's face only got wider.

"Don't mind Donghyuck here, he's got worms for brains." The smallest boy gazed up towards Taeyong with vaguely concealed interest, small snaggletooth peaking out as he grinned towards the taller boy.

"Oh, I see," he swallowed, mouth suddenly dry — something about the blood red capes and gleaming swords made sweat bead across the nape of his neck and the thorns in his system to tighten.

"Hey don't believe Injun, he's just jealous of my incredible brain power," Donghyuck gloated proudly — sticking his chest out and situating his hands on his hips — only to have a dark haired boy to yank him back next to him.

"Can- can I help any of you?" Taeyong tread carefully, still not fully comfortable with the appearance of the group.

A blond boy with a wide smile just walked past Taeyong in favour of looking over the roses that he was tending to — only stopping to look back at Taeyong with a grin. "These are really pretty," he hums. "I'm Jaemin by the way-"

"You're much better than the last gardener!" The second blond boy said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Whenever we'd come through most things would be dying. It was really sad"

"That's expected when they're a witch," Renjun quipped slightly — body angled towards the tallest boy, yet to speak. "You're not a warlock are you?"

Taeyong could've choked on his own spit in that moment, Renjun's amber eyes shining with mirth as he gazed lowly at the man in front of him — there was something telling in Renjun's expression, something that was squeezing Taeyong's ribs and dousing him in cold heat.

"Now come off it Injun, we don't want to scare him away," a deep voice interrupted Taeyong's internal panic — the boy next to Renjun had snuck his arm to encase the smaller in a side hug, eyes shining in crescent moons.

"Yeah Junnie! His flowers are so pretty do you see how many dragonflies there are at the pond! Chenle come look!" Taeyong feels a swell of pride as he watches the two blonds scurry towards the small pond in the middle of the courtyard.

"I'm very sure Taeyong here is not a witch Renjun, I'm, in fact, psychic — I told you this when we visited that crystals cart ages ago!" Donghyuck exclaimed with a throw of his arms, before turning back towards Taeyong with a wide gleam in his honey drenched iris'. "Besides, Taeyong is too pretty to be a warlock don't you think Jen, you've seen one! They're almost as ugly as Mark!"

Rolling his eyes fondly, Jeno shrugged before staring towards Taeyong, eyes wide and searching. "Oh definitely not," his gravelly voice hums. "If any of us were to be a witch it'd be you Hyuck."

Taeyong watches in alarm as Donghyuck lunges towards the other boy, arms outstretched and leaving his sword to clatter to the ground. Jeno ducks away from holding Renjun and runs off to where Chenle and Jaemin were admiring the flowers — he almost sighs in relief before the small noise of Renjun coughing grabs his attention.

"You take good care of the flowers, I think he'll like you." It's a statement. Words finite and warped with a small amount of wonder, only to quickly straighten and swiftly duck down to retrieve Donghyuck's forgotten sword before walking past the gardener, body swaying in the light breeze.

On day three Taeyong is left to wonder who 'he' is.

Day four of his first week brought similar chaos to the third only in a larger dose. Two tall men waltzed into the courtyard, chests embezzled with iron chestplates and velvet robes — hair framed away from their faces, one in a fiery red ponytail — no doubt having had some form of natural dye applied whilst the other's chestnut posed in a stylish coif, wax reflecting the sunlight. Taeyong ignored the way the two slowed as they came to walk past the section in which he was working — aiding some stick insects across the sun-heated stone.

"You're the new gardener," the redhead smiled as Taeyong perked up slightly, eyes wide and cheeks flushed from the heat. "And you're cute too," he grinned.

Standing up fully, Taeyong bowed slightly — ears burning from the compliment. "I- thank you. It's very lovely here." Taeyong almost apologises from how softly he speaks, nervous the two knights would struggle to hear but instead the two smiled lightly at the boy.

"I'm Jaehyun," The taller proposes, cheeks indented with dimples and eyes warm as he looks down at the younger.

"And I'm Yuta! Pleasure to meet you..."

"Taeyong," he murmurs.

"Taeyong! Beautiful name for a beautiful boy." Yuta continues to smile even after Jaehyun seemingly nudges him in the ribs, eyes now guarded.

"You've made the garden very serene," Jaehyun speaks, eyes trailing away from Taeyong's figure and turning to look around. "You're a lowborn are you not?"

Taeyong can't help but flush — he's not entirely acquainted with the etiquette of the Knights but he isn't sure that such a bold and personal question is appropriate — however he feels the need unnatural urge to buckle under the taller's gaze.

"Yes I am." He speaks confidently, squaring his shoulders slightly.

"Interesting," he murmurs. "Well you're very good at what you do. I see why they picked you."

"Thank you sir," he speaks quietly, the words hang in the air for a moment before Yuta scoffs and hits the dark haired man on the shoulder.

"Look at what you've done! You've got him calling you sir! Taeyong there's not need to be scared of us, we're here to protect you. We are Knights after all." Yuta smiles a bright smile as he hooks an arm around his lithe frame. "How old are you?"

"Oh I'll be turning nineteen this summer." He tries to ignore the way Yuta whistles lowly, clapping Jaehyun at the nape of his neck. "Well if you ever want to talk more feel free to come to the Knights quarters after work, you can meet the guys."

"Yuta," Jaehyun says, a warning note in his voice.

Ignoring the squirming feeling in his stomach, Taeyong gazes up softly at the redhead, eyes wide and doeish. "Okay," he smiles. "I'd like that."

Slipping away from Yuta's grip, Taeyong turns to pick up a discarded watering can and began to tend to a few hydrangeas, brushing off the whispers the elders were seeming to exchange.

"Well we'll be off," Yuta smiles — Taeyong is beginning to wonder if he ever stops smiling.

"Oh well it was lovely to meet you!" He returns a small smile of his own, cheeks grazed with pink and hair mused from the humidity.

"You too Taeyong." Jaehyun lingers for a few moments, eyes locked with Taeyong's, before turning and following his friend. Taeyong can't help but feel as though the man had just plucked something nestled in his brain and stuffed it in his pocket — waiting to unfurl its secret when there are no preying eyes waiting to listen in.

Taeyong isn't sure what to make of day four.

Day five and six don't hold any more surprise visitors, for the most part they're quiet — each dragging on in the same endless hase — with watercolour skies glistening in the spring air, butterflies dancing in synchrony. With Taeyong becoming that more sunkissed and palms that more calloused from tearing dying plants from their supposed graves. The castle gardens seemed to stretch for miles, especially when there was only one person to take care of such. The earth breathed under the soles of his shoes, whispering secrets that Mother Nature birthed from her bosom, letting her children suckle and teethe all of the wonders that she meant to bestow.

The only peculiarity was that at the end of the sixth day, when the sun was skimming the hills of the horizon — teetering on the edge of nightfall — a troop of horses hooves rippled throughout the honeysuckle infused air, crimson capes billowing in the winds that had begin to pick up on day five. Taeyong stopped beside the doorway leading to the courtyard, body leant on the arid sandstone as he watched with wide eyes a small group of tall men dismount their horses, all looking unharmed and clapping eachother on the back jovially.

Taeyong didn't mean to stare, but the tallest and most notable of the group stood proudly beside his horse — abrasive knuckles kneading the mane of the animal. Johnny Seo, heir to the throne of Camelot was a hard sight to miss. A concoction of beige and mustard and burgundy, simmering in a pot built from marble — sharp and jagged, shining and expensive. Johnny Seo, the prince whom was more like a ghost in his own kingdom — at least to the people where Taeyong comes from. Lee Taeyong swore that Johnny Seo had breathed the sky, throat wrapped in stems of waterlilies — blood curdling in the spots where the skin was torn from the plant, clawing and struggling. But that was only what he thought — he didn't know Johnny and Johnny didn't know him.

Almost as if the universe held him in their wrinkled hands, Taeyong felt electric buzz up his spine, figure rigid as a pair of eyes lazily dragged to meet his own. Hickory and curious — Taeyong held his gaze, cheeks no doubt with their same permanent flush from the sun, lips swollen from biting and fiddling — boys like Taeyong didn't get noticed by boys crafted from southern winds; whose boyhood had ebbed away as quickly as his baby fat, nitpicked away like hand-painted jewellery by toothless ghouls, feasting on misplaced innocence. Swallowing thickly, Taeyong was the first to look away, face angled towards the hard stone at his feet.

His throat felt constricted — Taeyong wasn't someone of interest, maybe more than before but not anything worth the Prince's interest. Who is he kidding. He holds none of his interest.

Taeyong, moulded from the palm of his own barbaric sins — his own existence cursed and devil bound. They enjoy it. The macabre cataclysm of daredevils possessing paradoxical boy-hands and riotous tendencies. Their sojourn byzantium fingerprints emblazoned in his skin. He can feel the rhythmic curling; heinously coiling around his exposed neck as he spews tempestuous prayers in the evening light, fire burning bright in his peripheral. Relinquishing in skin too immense for the fragility of his bones. He can't help but almost drown. They grin, showing their teeth — his gore.

For boys, ( read: Johnny Seo ), play with the Gods. For they are gluttonous, craving the thrill of death. People consider this common mania, common downfalls. Maybe he's too blind to see that.

Taeyong leaves the castle gardens on the sixth day feeling like his lungs have been bred with wasp stings and gums aching as he ground milky whites together — it's so fun to fall isn't it Yongie. 

**ACT o3 / SPREZZATURA:**

"Do you come here often?" Honey dipped and soothing, it was melodic marmalade and camomile tea — slightly rough around the edges as Taeyong sat snug and knee deep in soil on the following Monday. Yellow seeds reflected a kaleidoscope over his face as May turned to June.

He didn't look up, eyes boring holes into his rose tinted knuckles. "These are the gardens, I work here." It was a flow of letters, garbled and muffled through foggy confidence. Ghosts laughed at his negligence, taunting and plucking at his blond mop, nails tugging and coiling around the fluffy strands. Cooing at the fairy-boy with no filter.

The earth rumbled, sunflowers swaying as the man laughed — Taeyong liked his laugh. Turning to look up, squinting in the sunlight, shock flooded his bones and his marrow ached as he fell backwards slightly.

Standing in a beetroot tunic, Johnny Seo stood with halos fluttering in circles above his coffee crown. And Taeyong felt like he was drowning. Oh Johnny, Johnny was a walking dream; akin to one that he'd keep hushed in the secrecy of his own home — body shaking with ecstasy and fresh earth. Freckles on the crest of his forehead and rose buds perched on the highs of his cheekbones — seeing him like this, void of the crimson and ghoul horse, Taeyong saw what everyone else in the upper town must see. Soft — _soft soft soft_ and solid. Carved in stone and old beech tree, teeth curling up in a mould of lemon and milk. He looked peaceful, eyes lidded with sleep in the early morning.

You could tell he grew up in the castle the walls infused with poetry and cherry sweet blossoms were etched in his skin — Bragi knew what he was doing when he forged such beauty. Envy rumbled in the pits of his stomach before mortification dribbled down his oesophagus.

"I- I'm so sorry I thought you might be someone else I didn't. I'm Taeyong." Sickly sweet embarrassment sat in clumps of strawberry bushes inside his veins and in the whites of his eyes.

Quirking an eyebrow, Johnny straightened, eyes alight with amber. "So you were going to talk to someone else like that? What if I was the King?" Bumblebees fluttered at the curve of his lips as the man broke into another laugh, sucking at the liquid dripping from his throat.

Taeyong was feeling all too brave now — too brave for a boy plagued by rumours and night terrors of sliced throats and indigo fingertips gasping for air whilst their God cackled in the background, mocking. "I would speak as blatantly as I did just now Crown Prince," he spoke, face angled back towards the sunflowers — nails lined with green and maroon.

Silence accompanied his words and molten panic rippled in his throat — he was a Knight, like Yuta and Donghyuck (they're not the same, the devil whispers. Only one of the three have the power to have your skull on a platter,) surely his humour would be that of boyish grins and deafening laughter — rum split over their fronts as they sit around a lowly pub.

"You know you speak of treason, do you not?" The amusement is still there, almost incredulous in its small presentation — this lowborn orphan dare joke about speaking so frankly to the King, how improper.

Taeyong could feel hot breath, hotter than the air clinging to his milky flesh tease the shell of his ear, small pants scorching his memory. "It's okay, I won't tell." It's almost like a taunt. Cruel, sickly and mocking — that game with God; he's losing and losing so badly he doesn't realise he's no longer atop the world — it's axis teetered to the left ever so slightly. "I'd never wish for such beauty to go to waste."

That got his attention. He spoke so boldly, so unlike royalty — maybe this was the consequence of losing, of the lost boyhood torn from his grasp like a child with a piece of barley. "I am merely the gardener." He spoke dryly, not willing to divulge in the whims of his heart no matter how violently it beat.

"Tell me Taeyong-" Oh the sound of his name of his lips; it was a toxic berry, smearing roseate pigment across the smudge of his gloss, slick with spit and starry eyes. "What makes you think that?"

When he was younger, Ten used to sit in his lap — straddling his thighs smelling of burnt whiskey and sunset, blue eyes wide and catish whilst he'd speak of how pretty his best friend is. He'd lace his fingers in the strands of his hair and apply wildberries to his lips, humming as he kissed the taste off, tongue peaking through and leaving Taeyong to fall into a state of serenity. He had Ten to thank for his rough words; his best friend didn't need saving but Taeyong found himself in the role of hero far too often for someone who proclaimed they were purely a peaceful soul. Taeyong was naive about a lot of things, but Ten made sure that he was not naive about his looks. 

But now with the hairs on the back of his neck standing up wildly as tension buzzes through his nerves, he's a naive fool who's pride is similar to that of the man shadowing him and the words get lodged in his throat. Because really who is he to answer that question — he was being factual. He's the gardener, no matter how pretty or how soft, Taeyong hammers nails into his crystal coffin encasing his fragile body watching in terror as the ghosts toss his eyeballs through their translucent forms. 

"I think you know why." It's a mere whisper, it's only accompany in it's song is the steady breathing of the Prince. He's in half the mind to turn his head, lock eyes and challenge this strange man whose questions run rabid in his gargled brain. He's in half the mind to turn his head when he feels Johnny's weight leave from his back and hover over his shoulder. He instead focuses on the sunflowers in front of his face, eyes wide and glossy. He's in hald the mind his head when Johnny begins to leave, his words hanging in the air like cotton and linen.

"Nice sunflowers."

It's only after he hears the door to the courtyard click shut does he finally turn — Johnny is all that of a visage in the heated desert in the east and Taeyong can help but sink with the poisoning of lead and stone. 

**ACT o4 / STIFLING FEELING; I CHOKE ON IT:**

Wrapped in a loose blouse, stained with tea and lemon — Taeyong sat cross legged on cotton sheets whilst watching beads twinkling in candle fire, early summers breath echoing through the open window. It wasn't unlike him to sit in corners of the upper town and weave strings together in tranced boredom, only this time he was accompanied. A amicable silence, one that could only be formed through years of friendship and debt. Taeil hovered over books and ground herbs, looking all the part of a crazy, haggard man in a youthful body (even if he insists he's older than forty — lucky age curse). A small book sat nestled under the blanket entwined in his thighs, skin decorated in paper cuts and small callouses as they fluttered over the stained cover: 'Wild Plants And How They Bite' — only Taeil would own such a book.

They sat in moist contentment, breathing melding together in the humid air — quiet and peaceful as the faint sounds of Taeil's apprentice, Mark, lay slumber in the next room. Taeyong's emotions were aflame inside of his ribcage, puzzlement swimming behind the crystals in his eyes. Water was pooling at his feet whilst fish gasped in open-mouthed cries, confusion and apprehension knotting in a ball behind his ear, replacing the daisy hooked over the shell. The Prince was an enigma and the longer Taeyong spent bruising his knees the longer Johnny was there — figure looming and sending jolts down his spine as his fingers brushed the collar of his shirt. It was disorientating more than anything — and he wasn't truly sure how long he could last before he withered under the elder's heated gaze.

"Stop fidgeting." Gravelly from exhaustion and grainy tea, Taeil's voice crackled through the static in his brain before abruptly stilling his movements, arms poised suspended in the air. "You're acting like a chicken that's lost its head, what's wrong?"

In all honesty, Taeyong wasn't too sure what to say. He also wasn't aware that his position had completely changed to where he was close enough to the shelf beside him that if he wasn't careful he'd scatter glass and ointments across the cobbled floor. Dropping his arms that still hung in that air in his lap, Taeyong let himself slump slightly. Really he should tell Taeil — he's known the man since he was only eleven, full of slick disobedience and crackling fire — but what was he supposed to tell him. 'Hey you know I'm the Royal Gardener now? Yeah well the Prince kind of won't leave me alone,' he isn't sure if Taeil would dismiss him or laugh in his face — could be both.

"Taeyong." Looking up, the boy was met with the firm gaze of the older, corners softened by the buzz of candlelight clinging to his silhouette. "I deal with Mark everyday, I'm sure whatever is worrying you is not nearly as disastrous as what that boy gets himself into daily."

Oh yes — Mark — another uncounted for variable in a web of confusion as he usually trails Johnny like a lost puppy, but has yet to appear in the gardens to greet the older despite the two knowing eachother for roughly two years. The little demon crawling over the fragile crevices in his mind mutter that it's because Mark knows of his reputation — seen one too many times at the brothels and suddenly reluctant to be around him — he knows this is wrong, his fingers curling. He chalks it off to the boy being busy — but the cloying feeling suffocating his throat is still there.

"Yes he did almost die a few weeks ago didn't he," he replies dryly. As nervous as the absence of the younger warlock has made him recently, the burning love is still alight in his heart. "No but- it's nothing really."

"You don't look like it's nothing." Oh Taeil, ever the perceptive one.

As impossible as it seems, Taeyong curls in on himself further, sharp angles and jagged bones snagging at the blanket limp around his frame. "I just," he pauses, collecting his thoughts. "The Prince is a very regular visiter to the gardens and it's quite... unnerving."

Silence falls pregnant between them, the air turning stagnant — Taeil knows Johnny much better than he, and the prospect of the elder rebuking his claims for simple nerves causes the rock is his stomach to plummet.

"That is quite... peculiar. I've never known John to be one for natural beauty." 

"Taeil, please be frank. What do you mean?"

"I'm saying that you've most likely caught his interest. Is that frank enough?"

Taeyong knows, somewhere deep inside of him, there's a meadow of serenity where sunshine grows overhead and beneath your toes; illumination is never stagnant in his happy place, always creeping across the grass to sear any wandering feet with its blazing — all smoulders, ever dazzling, and all scorn complacency. He's found that it resides in the hungriest parts of himself, the parts that savour every intricacy, the parts whose skies grow brighter and whose breezes blush warmer at your every inclination. And when terror strikes he buries himself deep within its grasses, and all Taeyong wants to do is wrap his nervous fingers around the strands and shrivel up and blaze, body drenched and flee. He doesn't know why he feels cold, wet heat crawling up his arms — he images it's like a log swing, suspended high above a gargantuan lake. Taeyong isn't scared of water, but the abyss of ultramarine and cerulean is too frightening for a boy so young — so fragile. He's never actually gone on this log swing, with it's decrepit wood, soaked bone deep and mouldy — not even when the older children would sneer, call him a lady for being so cowardly and eventually push him towards where the oak stood next to the cliff, teetering on the edge with quiet waves rippling against it's walls. He never experienced it for himself but he imagines if he did, he'd feel this wonder sharp terror glee when he'd be lurched forward, legs flailing and dangling, doe eyes cemented to the water below. It'd reach it's peak and stars would flash in his vision before he'd fall — shrieks bursting from air-deprived lungs, desperate and terrified; the black pit sucking him below the waves he created on impact. He could've used a burst of magic to break his fall but never had he pushed his limits, only ever wasting energy on pretty flowers and even prettier boys. 

He'd like to think it's his self esteem — sticking to the skin on his back like paste, absorbing precious thoughts and winding them up like a music box. He isn't sure why Taeil's words ache — maybe it's because considering brings a flush of creeping fingers and blood red capes. Clear in his grin, self destruction is embezzled in his lips — cataclysms coil themselves tight beneath the man's skin whilst he sits beneath wisteria, plump tips playing with the lilac as the sunshine bathes him like that a mother would do a child, expelling darkness — but only to accidentally miss the stream hidden under his tongue. The darkness likes his bright eyes and Taeyong, born from darkness can't help but believe there's a multitude of truth behind Taeil's words. 

Feeling is a selfish luxury that Taeyong has always relished in and taken for granted. Self indulgence, self reflection, born under the sun at the peak of the crab — Taeyong had latched to emotion the way a child does to a breast and never really let go. Maybe he can understand it — the hesitance that locks those hands from going any further or prevents those words from progressing to anything more than vague pleasantries and honey smiles. Never letting the boy that feeds off emotion actually get a true taste because of what? Fear? He can't even be angry.

"Taeil..."

"I wouldn't lie to you Taeyong, you know this. And I think you know that there's something more going on here." 

"There's nothing going on." Stubborn oh stubborn boy, thorns slicing pink flesh and cackling in ways only the devil could as ebony hell drags blush hues down and smatters his cheeks in vile atramentous. 

Taeil doesn't say anything more — Taeyong can't tell if he's relieved from that fact. The evening glides into the night in content silence, Taeyong plucking the words from the pages and swallowing them in a cocoon on the wicker bench. Halfway through the night, Mark had hazily stumbled from his room murmuring words about meeting Donghyuck even though it was all too close to midnight, before promptly falling flat on his front as he tripped over the leg of the table in the middle of the room. It was only then when he looked up and saw Taeyong, cheeks rosy and blond hair as in as much disarray as it always is, whilst spouting words about a dinner arranged by the Royals for their workers. 

"Yong! I told Taeil earlier but Johnny told me about a special dinner they were arranging — I think Johnny convinced the King, anyway, I'm not completely sure if you're invited but I think you are I think I heard Johnny asking about you once but it's in a few days! Isn't that exciting." He finished with a rueful smile etched on his youthful face, hair still mused and bare collarbones reflecting the light of the candlelight. 

"Mark, please speak in more than one breath," he spoke, ignoring the multiple mentions of the Prince. 

"Well I think you're invited to the dinner they're having — it's on the eighth by the way — especially because you're new but it seems like a bit of a thank you? It's kind of strange since Jong-Soo has never really ordered something like this, that's why I was talking about Johnny — but that's a sore subject right? Sorry I was listening through the door."

Heaving a sigh, Taeyong stood and padded over softly to hover next to Mark, bony hands reaching out to straighten the collar of his sleep-shirt before letting his hand fall bare and vulnerable against the boys shoulder. "That- that sounds fine Mark. If you get anymore information on the time or dress code, visit the garden. Now weren't you going to meet Hyuck?"

Seeing all thoughts evaporate from the boys eyes, and instead became alight with clarity spurred a strange feeling in Taeyong's stomach; he couldn't help the way he creased in eyebrows as he watched his face sparkle. 

"Oh yeah! Bye Taeyong! Bye Taeil!"

"If you're going out don't you dare come back before sunrise! I have to sleep too!" Taeil's words most likely fell on deaf ears as Mark sped out of the house. Feeling the elders gaze on him, Taeyong turned and locked eyes. "A dinner? What a wonderful opportunity to talk, don't you think?"

All Taeyong did was slump back onto the bench and curl into a small ball, pouting the whole time. 

**ACT o5 / THE VOICE OF HIS EYES IS DEEPER THAN ALL ROSES:**

Clad in a satin blouse coining the colour of that similar to the heliotropes ladening the corners of the gardens (gifted by his aunt before her retirement) and a pair of black cotton trousers, thumbing his collarbone through the fabric and gazing up at the open doors of the castle. Mark had only come a day late to deliver the time for the dinner and Taeyong had spent the remainder of that same evening unearthing the contents of his small home in a fit of electric panic. He'd already seen multiple workers, a few knights on their off day, the head chef and their apprentice alongside a wide range of waiters and utility workers. He felt sick, out of place and nauseous down to the bone. 

He wished more than anything that Taeil or Mark were walking into the stone coffin with him, at least a barrier of sorts but alas he is not privy to such a laborious luxury. It was a clear path, lit with lanterns and guards, crimson blurring the corner of his vision at every corner. He'd never truly entered the castle — only watching from the town square as advisors and servants rush around halls, only sparring the outside world a passing glance before letting themselves be embedded in a sea of false justices. It was peculiar, walking and feeling so small in his own body — he isn't daft, he knows he is cursed with a small frame and gangly limbs but he isn't _short_. But the grand walls and carvings screaming at him from the walls mock his fragile marrow and reach out to pick him apart and it makes him feel oh so terribly vulnerable that he's surprised a guard has yet to stop him in interest about the heart in his throat and sweat beading his brow. 

The hall where he was welcomed was big — though he doubts this is that of the size used for banquets — a warm glow curling around roseate table clothes and the smell of wine pungent in the air; it took a great deal of self-restraint not to gag at the smell. Taeyong can see the scars marring the walls, hidden by tapestries soaking in war tales and dripping with blood. Stains and memories etched into the fabric and conveniently eclipsing taboos much worse than some worn-torn battles. But there was something greater in the room, loud and stormy, the King — Jong-Soo, stood beside a shimmering throne, hands clasped behind his back only a few paces to the left of his son — and oh how he was a sight for Taeyong's sore eyes. It's hard to miss his presence really, knuckles burnt into the flesh of his shoulders and words still etched in the curve of his ear — he's a fact that Taeyong wants nothing but to ignore. He's standing a good way away — further than the King at least — shadowed by a number of guests, all begging and grovelling for his attention whilst he stands tall and dipped in honeysuckle, eyes only focused on his manservant who chats animately about heaven's knows what.

Taeyong considers that a blessing and takes his way around to duck beside the refreshments laid out in a great spectacle; plucking at his purple shirt, he almost misses the small hand attempting to guide his gaze upwards. Dressed in deep blue, just like any other time Taeyong had seem him, Doyoung stood tall and steely — the contours of his face rigid in the dull lighting.

"Taeyong," he hums — eyes soft. "You look lovely, mind a drink?"

"Oh I don't really-" Words melt in his throat at the pointed look the Royal Advisor sends him, hands moving swiftly to pour a clear substance into a silver goblet.

"No please, it'll help you relax... you look like you need it. We're not all as scary as you may think." He supposes that in being in such a high position it wouldn't be too hard to read people — Taeyong has yet to decide if he really thinks that's a good or bad thing.

"I suppose you're right. I'm not really one for partying, my best friend Ten is usually the one doing that," he cuts himself off as he shuffles, bringing the cup up to his lips and ignoring the burn in his throat.

"The jeweller? Ahh yes, he knows a few of our Knights — I can see your plight."

"It's fine you get used to it." Doyoung didn't say anything, instead opting to shift to stand next to Taeyong, right arm hooking his in a fashion much too jovial for how Taeyong was feeling — bile wedged in his oesophagus and nerves crawling under tender skin. Really he shouldn't be drinking, it never ended well — many a times surfacing with his head in a basin and heat sticking to his brow — but when he finished his first round, he numbly reached out for another and Doyoung supplied him with another fix. Partially delirious, Taeyong was slightly relived that Johnny had yet to look his way all evening, instead focusing on other guests. It was a bit strange judging from what Taeil had told him no more than a few days prior but Taeil could be as old as the castle for all he knows, sometimes old age can affect your judgement.

"Doyoung! You're not stopping our resident gardener from enjoying himself are you? I know how you get." It wasn't difficult to tell who the voice belonged to, yet Taeyong couldn't help but fumble as he turned in bright flush to focus on the speaker. Crimson burned in the orange glow of the room and shark teeth gleamed as he clapped the Royal Advisor on the shoulder, receiving nothing but a grunt and glare in response.

"I don't get any particular way. So no Yuta, that's your job isn't it? I'm sure Taeyong isn't looking to bed someone like you anytime soon." Taeyong giggled slightly, hiccups bubbling from his tongue as his glossy gaze bleared slightly at the brightest of Yuta's grin.

"Why don't we ask him? What do you think Taeyong?"

The alcohol was definitely not a good idea, his addled brain fuzzy and incoherent. "Didn't I- already... already answer this question? In the garden?" His words felt too big for his mouth as he slurred slightly. He wasn't sure how long he and Doyoung had stood drinking, but casting his eyes to the windows, stars peered in, tendrils of light grasping onto the window-ledge in the dark of night — it proved to longer than he first assumed. Doom plunged in his stomach, he'd never been one to remember what happens when he's drunk but tales from a giggling Mark tell him all he needs to know — all not very reputable things.

"Huh, I guess — do you want to leave this old bat then?"

"Yuta you're older than me."

"You act like you're as ancient as the cook! Live a little Doie; you're not even drunk are you."

"I am!" Interrupted the younger, the words slipped from a languid tongue — only welcoming for heat to spread up to Taeyong's ears, doe eyes wide.

"Oh we know cutie. Hey Lucas! Where's Mark? Tell him to get a goblet of water!"

"Water does sound good," he mumbled, blond hair tickling the highs of his cheeks as he glanced to the floor. Oh how he was grateful Johnny was ignoring him — he couldn't imagine his reaction — he'd probably use it as some twisted form of childish blackmail for all he knew. 

"You asked for water Yu? You don't look like you're about to keel over." Taeyong wanted to crumble. Forget good impressions, he wanted nothing more than to run and stumble and wrench the thorns that were gathering around his ankles off until he bled blue. Honeyed and warm as ever, Taeyong looked up from his scuffed shoes and met the eyes of the man plaguing his starstruck dreams, mustard splattering across the sky in twinkling fascination. "Oh, well you sure do look drunk."

"How would you know?" Taeyong bit back, all too tart for someone speaking to literal royalty. 

"Oh maybe the glazed eyes and red cheeks were a bit on the nose. Why don't I take you for some fresh air?" Prayers leaked from his tongue in inconsolable whimpers, begging the ground to swallow his shallow body, allow the demons that run rabid across the stretch of his back finally draw blood and gather his bones in stacks to lay in pretty circles on the flowerbeds of the underworld.

"John, maybe you should stay here. With _all of us_." Doyoung's cold voice drawled out from beside him, eyes piercing and slightly wider than before — navy coat seeming to have darkened in the darkening light. 

"Oh no Doyoung don't worry, I know how stuffy it can get in here — besides I have some questions about flowers."

"You can do that here-"

"Come on Doie let's go find Kun! I'm sure he'll let you grovel freely!" Yuta's red hair disappeared into the crowd with a fumbling Doyoung trudging after him, sending cautious glances back at the pair before disappearing himself.

Taeyong watched them go, the heat on his cheeks ablaze and knuckles blistering in the boils of acid rimming his stomach.

"So? Fresh air?" Oh how Johnny Seo was a cold barrel of poison who was doing nothing but whispering deadly treats into the sweet flesh of the innocent. Taeyong wanted to hate him.

"Yeah okay," he mumbled — he wanted to say no, find Yuta and allow the elder to rattle on about who knows what for hours just so he wouldn't have to focus on letters mooning his vision. Johnny clasped a large hand around the curve of his small waist, fingers rough as they tapped slightly — leaving imprints of heat in their wake. The blond kept his head ducked, large eyes escaping their self instructed position of his feet every few seconds to glance upwards and swallow another bout of words desperate to bleed from his lips. The two walked in silence until Johnny lurched around a corner, his grip on Taeyong's waist scorching — he ducked beneath one of the tapestries that clung to every few walls before stopping — his abrupt halt causing the drunk boy to stumble forward, only to be reigned back until his back was flush against the Prince's chest. He suddenly felt all that more sober.

"What do you want from me," Taeyong breathed, mind molten as the ever familiar feeling of Johnny's warm breath — mint and sunflower seeds — wafted next to his rosy cheeks. 

"Would it be wrong for me to say I want to get to know you better?" Maybe it was his drunken state, or maybe it was the fact that Johnny's smell was far more comforting than he'd bargained for, but his proposition didn't sound half bad. Or at least it would've been if Taeyong didn't remember some vital information — that magic tingled his fingertips and flowed through his veins. He pulls away to face the man.

"It would be wrong. I think you're forgetting you're a Prince-"

"Does that mean I cannot bed someone of lower status?"

"So is that what you're after? To bed me?" It was harsh, he knew — he knew Johnny hadn't meant his words in such a way, but he almost wanted to escape; stop their relationship from becoming just that — halt progress before he can't turn back and wallow in regret. He watches Johnny's face crumble in the dim light, eyebrows creasing in lost worry, mouth gaping slightly as his honey eyes seer holes into the highs and lows of Taeyong's face. It makes him feel all too naked, too vulnerable. 

"No I- you fascinate me. You're unlike anyone I've ever seen before." The Prince was struggling to hold onto Taeyong, hands slipping from the others in muddled thought.

"I'm not here just to be someone's fascination." He can't help but whisper, voice as low as the light enveloping them. With wide eyes, Taeyong musters a step forward until he can pull his fingers from Johnny's grasp and place his bony hands against his firm chest. "But I suppose you're not just someone are you."

Oh how it was definitely the drink — what an awful liquid, liquid courage some do say — he'd never believed them before, but now maybe he does.

"No I'm not — I'm your Prince, if you'll let me be." They were so close, lips ghosting as the elder craned his head forward, arms having now laid rest of the crest of his lower back, hovering dangerously low, fingers tapping and drawing spirals under satin and against skin in a way only the possessed of the devil would know how to do. 

"And if I say no?" He felt like he was swimming, there was that lake again, he'd resurfaced and was gasping, shivering and feeling like he'd just been smashed like glass — legs quivering in his hold and gaze looking towards the sky at the swing, teetering as eerily as always. 

"If you say no... I'll just have to try harder." 

"No need." It was the earth — warm and soft with abrasions littering the edges, mint soaking his bottom lip as the elder plucked at it whilst Taeyong drew their bodies closer until they might aswell have been created as one. Heat poured from the seams of Johnny's skin and littered the younger in the scent of sunflowers and marmalade. He felt starved and full at the same, oh how paradoxical — Johnny pushed forward, both of their bodies collapsing against the cold stone whilst their mouths blossomed desire and christened passion. Spit slick and flushed, Taeyong drew back in a gasp and let his Prince dance across the span of his neck and exposed clavicle, sucking and nipping in interest whilst Taeyong let himself arch further into the larger man. It was euphoric and even in his drunk state, Taeyong knew this was addictive — a catalyst for more ruddy bruises and blooming adoration in quiet corners where only the devil would be able to hear their choked moans and desperate calls. 

Diving back down, Taeyong reconnected their lips in vigour, breathing shallow as he swallowed words with each muddled peck. Johnny's hands were leaving burn marks against his fair skin, rubbing until the flesh was raw and supple. 

"You-" Gasp. "Are the most-" A muffled whine. "Gorgeous-" Their bodies fall. "Boy in the world." Johnny's voice was liquid fire and that of a warm blanket, cocooning Taeyong is such care and praise he could choke on it.

Pulling back, glossy eyed and lips swollen cherry red and plump, Taeyong lent his head against the man's chest — legs intertwined on the dusty floor, all while he let calloused fingers unknot the blond strands sweeping across his face. "Johnny-" he breathed, mind too foggy to do more than heave into the Prince's embrace. 

The mist was broken when an all too familiar cough doused the pair in ice fire — shame and regret crawled over his skin and he jerked backwards and upwards, stumbling away from the safe space they'd crafted from their bare marrow and scent. He felt winded when his back hit the wall as his doe eyes screamed with panic — the Royal Advisor was an intimidating man and Taeyong was a fool, a petty little boy out of his depth and playing with things he has no right in touching. 

"John, follow me. Now." The words were nothing but steel — so unforgiving and rueful. It was embarrassing, to have fallen into another trap — only this time it was actually him doing such deeds and not just aiding his friend when men had gotten a little too comfortable in the sex houses — and all with people who had the power to wilt away his bones and blood.

Taeyong didn't miss the painful glance Johnny cast him when he left nor did he miss the hateful one Doyoung gave. Maybe getting drunk ended worse than he thought. 

**Author's Note:**

> omg omg so this is part one!! of taeyongs pov, this is my first multichaptered fic and i’m very excited about it :)) i'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter!! <33（ﾉ´∀`）feel free to contact me at my twitter (@mazokuyuta) or curiouscat (@solntserises) and tell me if you have any questions or anything you particularly liked,, anyways all my love and i hope you enjoyed! (୨୧•͈ᴗ•͈)◞ᵗʱᵃᵑᵏઽ*♡ — lilla x


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